In their one-room apartment
years before the things
they’d come to own
owned them,
the couch doubled as a bed,
the small desk
was part of a room divider
on which a turntable spun
the music they’d half-hear
while making love.
In the kitchen: cook and cockroach
fought for space.
The little refrigerator would hum.
No settee. No divan. No language
of the settled.
No glass case with stoneware plates
for special occasions.
Just passion every night,
arguments, tumultuous accommodations.
It was unbearable. They were learning
if they could bear it.
Everything that was almost theirs
within reach.
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